


Richie Tozier's "All Dead" Rock Show!

by peridottie



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, based on the book and movies, in the futuureee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-08 20:42:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20841701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peridottie/pseuds/peridottie
Summary: Stan goes to see a stand up routine and runs into someone he can't believe he forgot.





	Richie Tozier's "All Dead" Rock Show!

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't written in forever but i banged this out and may write a couple more chapters depending but i figured i should get it out!! hope you like it!

Stanley Uris craned his head back to read the faded, blocky letters resting askew on the white marquee. The line had shuffled along so he was now almost directly underneath it, but he could still make out the words:

_ RICHIE TOZIER _

_ THE “ALL-DEAD” ROCK SHOW! _

Stan frowned. He had been puzzling over the title as soon as he saw it printed on he and Patty’s tickets. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like the quotations around  _ ALL-DEAD,  _ or the fact it was called a rock show despite it being a stand up comedy routine  _ (bad marketing on his part; pretty terrible, actually. what would happen if someone came thinking it  _ was  _ a rock show? wouldn’t help his reputation, no, not at all, does he even have a manager? an agent? a—) _

“Patty? You’re sure you don’t know why it’s titled that?” He asked, for the second time, ripping his eyes from the hypnotizing words as the line took another few steps forward and it became impossible to read. 

Patty had her hand placed lightly on his forearm, and she sighed. “I’m positive,” she responded affirmatively after considering it again, if only for the sake of her poor fiancé.

“I’ll bet you there’s a joke about it during the show. Something you don’t expect, and then it just hits you in the face, like,  _ bam!  _ And it all makes sense. And we’ll  _ laugh,  _ and  _ laugh—“  _ Her voice had developed an exasperated, sing-song quality as she swayed with Stan, gripping his arm a little tighter and pressing her head into his shoulder. 

Stan’s stomach fluttered agreeably, and he grinned. He brought the back of his hand to his mouth on instinct and giggled along with Patty. He was sure she was right, but the title wouldn’t stop bugging him until he got an answer. It just didn’t make  _ sense,  _ and that was the most terrible sin possible for Stanley. Everything had an explanation. Nothing came from nowhere, nothing was unexplainable, and even if it was, Stan would simply refuse to acknowledge it. 

_ RICHIE TOZIER. THE “ALL-DEAD” ROCK SHOW!  _ It had to have some meaning behind it. It  _ had  _ to make some sort of sense.  _ All-dead,  _ he thought.  _ All-dead, what does death have to do with a  _ comedy  _ show? Terrible marketing. _

—

The theatre was small and filled with smoke. Not cigarette smoke, but the kind that comes out of smoke machines, that smells weird and hot and like bad haunted houses on halloween. Patty must have noticed, too, because she wrinkled her nose and furrowed her eyebrows at Stan, nodding as if speaking to him telepathically. Luckily, he did know what she was thinking;  _ What’s this about? _

“I don’t know,” he answered, out loud. It seemed like neither of them knew a lot these days. He jammed his ticket stub into his back jeans pocket and instinctively checked for his wallet while he was there. “Maybe left over from another show?”

Patty nodded sagely as she wiggled her way into a middle row and sat down. “Probably,” she said. “Something tells me Richie Tozier wouldn’t use a gimmick like this.” 

“I think he would.”

Patty raised an eyebrow. “How would you know? You didn’t even know who he was when I mentioned that I bought tickets.” 

_ I did,  _ Stan thought quickly, and then waved a hand through the smoke filled air in front of his face.

“Just seems like some new-wave comedy thing, like that guy, Bob Burnham—“

_ “Bo  _ Burnham, dear.”

“Well, him, then. I’m going to go use the bathroom before the show starts.” 

The door for the bathroom was directly next to the front of the stage, and as soon as Stan went inside, he found himself not in a restroom, but stranded inside the inner-workings of the theatre. There was a prop table next to him, but it was noticeably lacking in any props. Above it was a faded arrow that read, “BATHROOM THIS WAY.” On his other side were the stairs leading up to the wings of the stage, which were being dutifully guarded by a young tech wearing a bulky headset to make sure no lost soul accidentally meandered onstage. 

Stan continued forward, careful not to touch or get too close to anything that looked important. He kept his eyes on the grimy carpet path that seemed to be falling apart before his very eyes. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket and Stan paused to fish it out. He huddled against the wall, arms drawn up, and opened the message. 

** _Pats_ **

_ They’re selling wine. Do you want any?  _

Stan had already typed a succinct “Sure” when he was shoved roughly from behind. He stumbled with a choked gasp and threw his arms out in front of him to break the fall. They bent uselessly and he felt his phone slide out of his hand, disappearing a few feet ahead of him, which wouldn’t have been a problem if it wasn’t so  _ fucking dark back there.  _

Stanley’s feet collapsed last and his loafers hit the carpet with a dull  _ thump!  _ At that exact moment, he heard a strange, high voice. 

“Oh, my  _ ga-ahd!”  _ It trilled. Then, quickly, “I am so fucking sorry, man!” 

Stan’s cheek was resting on the carpet, and he could smell a sickening combination of mildew, mothballs, and sweat. He grunted and began to lift himself up when he felt someone’s hands awkwardly grab him by the armpits. He shouted in surprise and, though it was shameful to acknowledge, fear. He’d been grabbed like that one too many times by the bullies in his adolescence, and his brain remembered what always came next—a swift kick in the stomach. 

The hands let go and the high voice returned with a similar exclamation. Stan fell forward once again, but he caught himself by his hands this time. He could see his phone, still glowing dimly, and reached out to grab it before rolling over to face his attacker. 

Silhouetted above him was a tall, somewhat gangly man, hands splayed in front of him, obviously unsure of what to do. It took Stan a longer time than it should have to realize who he was, because he looked like he could have been any one of the theatre-goers in the audience by the way he was dressed. He was wearing a tacky purple windbreaker that, Stan noticed with a twinge of disgust, had a glaringly obvious ripped seam. Underneath was a neat white button-up with some kind of colorful, paint splashed pattern. It was also crooked. 

“Shit, man!” Richie said, and fumbled for the glasses hanging on the collar of his shirt. He put them on and blinked. “Are you good? I didn’t know you were leaned against the door, I thought some dipshit had put a box against it or something. Oh, man,  _ please  _ don’t go to a tabloid about this, my career is already—“

“Beep beep, Richie.” 

Richie stopped talking and stared wide-eyed at Stanley. Stan’s jaw dropped as if he hadn’t been the one who said it and he touched the back of his hand to his lips again.  _ Richie.  _ Holy shit, it was  _ Richie Tozier. His  _ Richie Tozier, the one who called him “Stan Urine” and came to his bar mitzvah even though he was always teasing him and calling him the Killer of Christ, and holy  _ shit _ . 

“Stanley,” Richie said numbly. Stan could see the chill of recognition that wracked his tall frame. Then, with a sudden wave of emotion, “Oh,  _ Stanley!”  _

“Sorry,” Stanley said, still dumbfounded. “I don’t—“ 

Richie knelt down on the floor next to him and took him by the collar of his ironed shirt. He gazed at Stan intensely, studying him. “Oh, it really  _ is  _ you! How—How have you been?”

“I would be better if I wasn’t on the floor of this dump.” 

“Oh, yeah!” Richie exclaimed. “Course you fuckin’ would, you wet end,” and then, once again for good measure, “Stanley. Stan the Man. Shit.” 

Richie grabbed Stan’s hand and squeezed tight before helping him off of the ground. Stan found his footing and began to dust himself off and tuck his shirt back in (all one handed, since Richie was still gripping his right hand tightly and sort of shaking it). 

“So this is what you do, huh?” Stan said, a bit smugly, smirking at Richie and gesturing to the low hanging ceiling, cracking support beams and musty air. “Not all glamor and glitz like you hoped, is it?” 

Richie shrugged in a sheepish sort of way. “I guess there’s always a catch, isn’t there?” 

“My fiancé saw you on Comedy Central,” Stan blurted. He felt like he needed to explain why he was there, since he suddenly felt a bit embarrassed, like Richie might think he’d tried to find him on purpose. “And she loved it. So she bought us tickets. I  _ thought  _ the name was familiar, but I really didn’t…” 

There was a sudden, heavy silence. His hand had become sweaty within Richie’s. 

“Remember?” Richie finished. Stan nodded, and they were silent again. 

“Me either. No offense.”

Stan shrugged. “You have more of an excuse, I guess. Your name is everywhere, I  _ should  _ have recognized you easy. I’m just a kid you grew up with.” 

_ “What!”  _ Richie blurted, bursting into a fit of giggles that were incredibly contagious. “Wow, Stan the Man gets off a good one! ‘A kid you grew up with,’ he says. That’s a laugh. Hey, maybe  _ you  _ should go up onstage and tell the jokes!” 

Stan shied away from Richie a fraction. “I don’t…” he began slowly. He was a little scared of what Richie was laughing at. What he was implying. 

Richie slipped behind him with smooth ease and boxed his ears quickly, but not hard. “A kid I grew up with!” he cried. 

“Richie, hey!”

Richie circled him again and grabbed him tightly by the shoulders. “Stanley, you weren’t just a random kid I grew up with! You—“ another fit of laughter, “—You were my best  _ friend!  _ If anything, it is  _ fah _ more  _ egregious  _ of  _ me _ to forget you, my liege,  _ fah moah!”  _

Stan released some of his tension, but he still brought up his hands to encircle Richie’s wrists and push lightly. “You’re a maniac,” Stan murmured. “I forgot that, too. How you’re a fucking maniac.” He was smiling, though, despite his sore ears and shoulders. He hadn’t felt so overwhelmed with joy since Patty agreed to marry him. 

Richie did not ease his grip, and he was smiling in that wicked way he always did as a kid. The smile that Stan knew meant he was about to tell a fucked up joke, usually at his expense, but the joke didn’t come. He was just smiling, eyes huge beneath his glasses and a five o’ clock shadow peppered on his chin. 

_ You grow into your looks.  _

_ Like now, but taller.  _

“Come to my dressing room?” Richie asked finally. “I’m still not on for another half hour.” 

Stan started to nod, but then looked warily behind him. He could see the sliver of light coming from the curtain that now looked so far away. Richie sensed his unease before Stan did. 

“What’s wrong, Stanny-boy?”

“Patty,” Stan said stupidly. His lips felt sort of numb. “Patty’s, um… waiting for me.” He felt entirely like a moron. The truth was, he  _ wanted  _ to go with Richie. Like he always did. Even if he made a whole fuss about not going, he would follow him no matter what. To the soda fountain, to The Barrens, the arcade, or just aimlessly around Derry, Stan would go with him. Right by his side, always. Quietly, but still there, and sometimes Richie would take his hand and squeeze to remind Stan he knew he was there. That he wasn’t 

_ (forgetting) _

ignoring him while he was talking to someone else. The little things like that were fuzzy to him now, but they were the most important. 

“Right,” Richie was gazing down at Stan, looking a little sorry. “Of course. Wait, You’re gonna marry a girl named  _ Patty?”  _

“Watch it, Rich,” Stan warned, but he was grinning. “Nobody would take  _ Tozier  _ as a last name over their dead body.”

“How about ‘Trashmouth?’ At least as a middle name?” 

“Oh,  _ much _ better.” 

Stan put up a hand and waved, then walked backwards a few steps, and then finally turned around. He realized he didn’t even use the bathroom, but it didn’t really matter. He had only wanted to wash his hands anyway. 

“Hey, Stanley?”

Stan turned around. Now Richie was just looking  _ pitiful.  _ “Will you come see me after the show, at least? If anybody tries to stop you, just tell ‘em your name.” Stan was just gawking at him when Richie added, now sounding almost desperate, “Bring your wife, too, if you want! She can brag to her Jewish knitting club afterwards.” 

“Fiancé,” Stan corrected, and then cringed at himself. “Right. I will. It’s good to see you, Richie.” 


End file.
